


Hands Are Clever

by simplemelodies



Series: A Bad Love Like This [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplemelodies/pseuds/simplemelodies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Hamish Watson discovers his father has set up yet another "getaway" with Sherlock Holmes's family, staying in his grandfather's old cabin. Staying one more year, their last year, will leave the air charged with the unspoken between the two. But in the week leading up to the "getaway, what exactly is John thinking of?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Are Clever

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of (out-of-order) stories involving the summers between John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes's years seven through twelve. Please forgive any mistakes, for I am not from the UK and therefore I am absolutely horrid at the customs. Thank you to Lucy (pawtal on tumblr, and Pawtal on AO3) for bearing with me and teaching as much as she can, and for inspiring this little project. You're forever a little shit, but who cares. Also, for Tirzah (gingercult on tumblr and shippingjohnlock on AO3 for the constant encouragement. I couldn't ask for a better best friend.   
> I really do wish you enjoy this little piece.   
> C.J.

Beginning of Summer 2012

He was seventeen and somewhere between leaving and staying. There was no easy choice and yet there was only one he could make. In a world where the only options were vast seas of sand or confined classrooms, the obvious decision glared at him from the application he kept tucked under his pillow at night.

John sighed as he lied on his bed. His ceiling’s pattern of swirls and stars stared back at him, daring to take his mind away from the desert, away from the heat that threatened to consume his life beginning next September. It all seemed surreal, actually. In a year he would be on his own, out in the world with only the possibility of “making it”.

It was an odd feeling, having his entire future looming directly in front of him.

John blinked at the ceiling once again, closing his eyes against the images that invaded his brain. Long, pale fingers stretched out to grasp his shirtsleeve; a smile, bright as a thousand suns, burned into the back of his eyelids; eyes like fire danced across his vision, never the same colour twice. John opened his own eyes, and the visions were gone. He was alone in his flat, staring at a ceiling he’d had since his mother had decided to redecorate.

His heart twisted at the memory.

A ghost of laughter echoed in his ear, light and feminine.

He smiled at the memory.

A door clicked open downstairs, and John sat up. That would be Jonathan, here for the night. Footsteps echoed from the front room into the hall and stopped abruptly at John’s bedroom door. There was a knock, and with a prompt from his son, Jonathan Watson stepped into the room.

A tense moment passed between the two; it was not too often that anyone entered John’s room without an astute “ _get out_ ”.

“Are you ready for Sunday, John?” Mr. Watson was formal, something entirely new to John.

Truth be told, the teenager wasn’t. He wasn’t ready to see the cabin again, or the memories that came with it. However, he nodded and responded, “I’m packed, ready, and waiting.”

Two days. Two days was all he had to forget last summer, to drown in the feeling of _not_ feeling. Two days to suffocate away all the rage he had inside himself for one teenager.

John sighed as his father left the room, the door clicking softly behind him. He closed his eyes, remembering the touch of a young man, the brush of hot skin against his own, the lips like a furnace that would never be put out. John didn’t even remember his name now.

He shivered when tan skin faded to porcelain, when red hair became mahogany, when the voice that echoed between his ears deepened to a bottomless baritone. John’s eyes snapped open, and he rolled over with a groan. Honestly, this would never work. The closer he got to Sunday, the worse off he became. He swam in the tides of his own regret most days, until late at night. Then, he would indulge that regret.

He would dream of his old friend, and he would open up a secret that he could never let anyone know about. He would cry into his pillow the name of a summer spent wanting.

Images tore through his mind, raging through his brain like a storm—and he was a ship, stuck in the treacherous waters of his own craving. No matter how many walls he put up, what cement he used, there was always a crack that would let the liquid in, a fissure that would sling the saltwater onto the decks and corrode his masterpiece of a barrier.

Late at night, he’d envision his lover with him, skin glowing like a star, sweat staining the sheets. Breath mixed with breath and sighs combined with the brushing of fingers on cheeks and lips on necks to make a chorus of—.

John stopped himself. This wasn’t healthy, how much he _needed_. That night, he fell asleep to the sound of traffic and the creaking of the building.

X

 

Sunday morning dawned bright and warm. John groaned and rolled out of bed, pulling on his shorts. His muddled brain took a while to kick-start as he got ready for his morning run.

John stepped out the door, and as the breeze lifted the wisps of his hair, it seemed to lift his mood. He smiled and set off at a slow pace, watching as the sun rose quietly between the buildings. Air pushed in and out of his lungs easily and he marveled at the beauty that was a peaceful morning. Noises carried from the surrounding houses, and he lost himself in the feeling of exertion.

And then the thought struck him that today he would be leaving, and today he would be facing the shame that was his best friend.

His breath came quick now. He needed to keep going, though, so he continued. He put one foot in front of the other, on an endless cycle, focusing on the way his feet slapped the pavement with assured steps. His pace was set and he wasn’t going to falter. His mind was clear, and as he took in each breath, as it pierced his lungs like ice, he became calm.

Everything would be fine.

John reached the bridge that stretched across the stream two miles from his house and turned around. This would have to be all for today. John’s legs supported him half of the way home, until he slowed to a walk. He couldn’t focus on steps anymore, and they invaded.

Thoughts barged into his mind, uninvited and unwelcome. Images of eyes with cutting stares and soft brown hair tumbled into his peaceful Sunday morning, cluttering it with confusion. John clutched the sides of his head as he walked, trying to force the unwanted feelings away. This wasn’t something he needed, certainly not for _this man_.

John stretched and yawned, staring up at his flat. It would be a while before he returned, and a part of him wanted to remember how it was before he took the dark tumble into what he was sure would be his worst summer yet. 


End file.
